Deadline
by Chaser Red Productions
Summary: He was a washed up racer, with a career that was over before it even began. He's haunted by the accident, but nonetheless, when his best friend is threatened by the Mafia, Charlie must repay the debt by entering and surviving the Deadline


The screams of engines, small, huge and all between. The screeching of tires on the asphalt of the track at every tight turn. The cheers of the mass crowd as everything passed by.

Everything about it was music to his ears. Everything about it made him grin, laugh, made him jittery with energy. Being behind the wheel, it was what got his heart pumping. For him, winning didn't really matter. Getting the gold to him usually meant as much as finding change in bis pocket. It was the thrill that he loved. To just push his ride to its limit and see just how far he could take it. But just because winning didn't matter, didn't mean he wasn't aiming for it.

It was the final lap, in the lead was number 1, the all time winner Anthony "Slash" Roberts speeding down the track in a red 2018 Dodge Charger bodied Nascar, fitted with the finest engine the company could offer.

This was not the person we're routing for. He would be all the way in between third and fourth place.

His name, Charlie Ross. And under the orange helmet he couldn't help but grin like a psycho. The blue HUD of his visor filled the sides of his vision, showing his position, his time, and the speed of his vehicle.

"Alright, last lap! Time ta let loose!" He stated to himself, taking his right hand off the wheel and gripping the six shift and tapping the brake, before spinning the wheel just at a winding corner and taking a tight inside turn. In such a position, he stepped off the gas for a moment, before switching to a lower gear and slamming the pedal back to the floor.

Smoke escaped from the orange 2018 Chevrolet Camaro bodied '43' car. The engine roared out as it exited the corner, speeding down the short straightaway before taking the next turn.

Meanwhile everyone watched from the stand. Including a man in a white tuxedo, wearing gold tinted raybands with long flowing brown hair. He sat within the VIPs seat, a red comfy reclining chair, in a room overseeing everything, while on the window was a videofeed of the '43' car weaving through the twists and turns of the track.

"I thought the plan was to fall back." The man stated, rolling his head to the side to see the a young man, pale white with a more casual look than anyone else. In a faded blue jean jacket, a hoodie, and black jeans with sneakers. "You didn't tell him otherwise, did ya Rowley?"

"N-no, of course not Mr. White!" Rowley quickly stammered, sweating up a river as he tapped his foot aggressively, watching. There were absurd amounts of money riding on number 43, twenty thousand dollars if he won. But if he lost, even more.

In truth Rowely hadn't said anything about this little deal to the driver, that number 43 was to hype the crowd, put money on him, have him lose and let White collect the money.

"Good..." Mr. White mumbled to himself as he turned his attention back to the race, as the orange Camaro blew through second and was jumping for first. In the grand scheme of things it didn't matter whether Charlie willingly lost or not, as he pulled from his white coat a small device with one button and a small red beading light

With a gulp Rowely watched, and in the back of his mind he prayed. Prayed to God for him to fail.

"Open up, I'm coming in!" Charlie grinned wide as he took another tight inside turn. The track was like that of a hot wheels set, escalating and lowering each twist and turn. The '43' Nascar slid through the turn, its fender just inches from the Charger's door as they both turned sideways through.

The fourteenth and final came up before the long straightaway, a downwards spiral before a clear shot to the finish. Both muscle cars took the inside tight, the rear ends pushing out from the deceleration and sudden acceleration of the turn.

"Ca'mon bud, open up..." Charlie muttered to himself as he pushed the pedal all the way to the floor, pushing his ride even further. The front bumper's splitter scraped against the inside of the track as he pushed in deeper.

Slash grit his teeth. The Camaro was so close, one simple bump could throw the man off the track. Letting out a groan Number 1 let off the gas, slowing down and letting 43 into his space. No time was wasted as the Camaro plowed through, just barely grazing the Charger before the straightaway. Almost an entire mile ahead, Charlie was so close. And the Charger would be right on his tail.

The young racer smirked, filling with confidence as he upshifted into his next gear, putting the pedal as far to the floor as he could. Slowly the orange Camaro pulled away from the Charger, reaching around 140 mph as he sped for the finish line.

"Hmm...what a conundrum..." Mr. White spoke to himself, calm and quiet, but still loud enough for Rowely to hear, as he lifted a hand,with the small device in it. Rowely's eyes widened in terror. "I wonder...would a crash this speed kill em'?" He looked back at the young man in the room, growing a wide smirk. And before any protests could be heard, White pushed the button, and the light on the device went green.

He was so close, to winning. To setting his name in stone in the racing world. Even if it was small, it was enough for him. But then something slipped. A small combustion under the car? Enough to break the front axle of the Camaro.

Before anyone even knew, the tire of the Camaro went flying, setting the car unbalanced with the right half of the front bumper scraping against the track. It was out of control, sliding to the side some before the splitter of the car jammed itself into the asphalt. Instead of stopping, the Camaro was thrown into the air.

Everything around him became slow motion, as Charlie watched wide eyed. He saw the ground, the sky, the spectators watching. And the Charger he had just passed, go by. Only after that did reality fully return. The car landed on its roof, using all the built up momentum it had gained at the stretch and tumbling over and over like a tumbleweed. Plates and piece went flying from the base of the nascar, as it crossed the finish line.

Rowely looked on in horror. That was his best friend in there. He wasted no time leaving Mr. White in his VIP space, and making his way down to the track.

The Camaro finally rested on its remaining three tires, the body mangled with parts scattered everywhere. And Charlie sat inside.

He was dazed. The visor of his helmet had cracked, and part of it had broken off. As well blood was dribbling down his forehead, over his left eye as he struggled to keep both open.

It was a few minutes before anyone came to get him, and when they did everything became a muffled, jumbled mess. Services were able to rip the door off, gaining access to the cockpit. And as he was pulled out carefully, before he blacked out completely, he heard a voice. Oddly female, one he couldn't recognize.

"Is he alright?! Get out of my way! Is he alright?! Charlie say something!..."


End file.
